


Reliably Informed

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Heart Transplant, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Medical, Sherlock is a big baby, Surgery, heart failure, medical speak, organ transplant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:10:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 12,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1471021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock liked to insist he didn't have a heart, but that didn't work out so well when it stopped functioning like it was supposed to. And Sherlock really hated being in the hospital. <br/>Rated for language in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John paced the floor of the waiting room. He hated waiting. Not all the time, since he could be a very patient person on occasion, but when it came to Sherlock, he wanted answers and wanted them _now._

They had just gone chasing after a dog that Sherlock had finally located, when he collapsed. To be honest, John wasn't sure why Sherlock had taken the case of a missing dog, but there they were, sprinting after it in a nearby park. Until Sherlock had just dropped.

He was slightly ahead of John, one of the perks of having significantly longer legs, despite John's greater athletic ability, and one moment he was sprinting after the dog, calling over his shoulder for John to hurry, and the next he was crumpled in a pile of long limbs and coat. John immediately forgot about the dog and rushed to Sherlock's side, wondering what the hell could be going on, because he hadn't heard a gunshot or anything, and he'd actually managed to make Sherlock eat breakfast that morning.

Sherlock's forehead was bleeding a little where he must have hit his head as he fell, but otherwise looked fine. Pale, definitely, even more so than normal and when John stuck his fingers to Sherlock's neck, his pulse was thready.

That was when he called for an ambulance, realizing this wasn't just something he could fix at home.

 

He didn't genuinely start panicking until they strapped Sherlock onto a backboard, stuck an oxygen mask on his face, and loaded him into the ambulance.

He didn't wake up on the way to the hospital, and John was forced to remain in the waiting room. Waiting. Endlessly. John had sat through long aeroplane flights and nights that seemed endless before the sun finally decided to peek out, but this was by far the worst waiting.

 

“John Watson?”

John's head snapped up. “Yes?”

“I'm Mr Holmes' doctor, Doctor Coleman. I understand you're a doctor as well?”

John nodded. “You can just call me John. And Sherlock.”

“Alright,” he said, nodding briefly and glancing down at his notes. “Why don't we take a seat and discuss Sherlock then. He insisted that you be told anything first, and then that you tell him.”

John breathed a sigh of relief. “So he's awake?

Doctor Coleman nodded. “He's been agitated, which I gather is usual for him. There are extensive notes in his chart.”

John shook his head. “He mostly just likes making things difficult.”

Doctor Coleman smiled. “Well, he's been relatively cooperative so far. We've done an ECG, and there seems to be some abnormal rhythms.”

John nodded.

“There also seems to be a bit of fluid in his lungs. Has he been complaining of being ill lately, showing any symptoms of an infection?”

John bit his lip, but shook his head briefly.

“He's not very forthcoming about that sort of thing. He usually works until he falls asleep on his feet. He insists that his immune system is superior to any one else's, and that he can't get sick.” John smirked. “You should see him when he has a cold.” He looked up. “Is that what this is? Sherlock's ill, maybe pneumonia, and he just kept pushing himself until he couldn't go any further and collapsed?”

“It's possible,” Doctor Coleman conceded. “But the specific cause of him passing out was from an arrhythmia that led to his oxygen saturations dropping.”

John frowned. “And what caused the arrhythmia?”

The doctor shook his head. “We're still running some tests. Nothing like this has happened before?”

John shook his head. “Sherlock's done a lot of things, been shot, stabbed, passed out from low blood sugar, but I've never known him to have a heart arrhythmia.”

The man examined John and nodded.

“You can see him now if you'd like. We're going to do an echo soon, and he's scheduled for more tests in the morning.”

John stood up and shook the doctor's hand. “Thank you,” he said.

The man smiled a little bit.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was glad to see him.

“John, you must take me home. This is so exceedingly dull,” he whined.

John scoffed. “Ah, nope. You're staying here until we get the results of the tests back, and possibly longer. This isn't something that will just go away.”

“I can't. I'm busy,” he insisted. “I've got that experiment on with the fish.”

John narrowed his eyes at him. “Seriously? You are too busy to prevent dying? That's really counterproductive Sherlock.”

Sherlock only scowled at him and flopped back onto the pillows.

He had a dusky tinge, and John noticed he was breathing faster than he should have for just laying in a bed.

John glanced at the monitors. _No wonder._

“Sherlock,” he chastised, getting out of the chair.

Sherlock only grunted.

“You can't be doing this,” he scolded, tracing the oxygen tubing to under Sherlock's pillow. “Your sats are too low. And let me guess, you managed to turn off the alarms on the monitor?”

Sherlock smirked, but it vanished as John threaded the tubing behind his ears and went to put it under his nose again.

“No,” he growled.

“Sherlock,” John said firmly. “Stop this. Your sats are only 85, and you're not thinking straight. I will get a nurse in here to sedate you.”

Sherlock scowled, but stopped fighting John, instead just sulking as John mothered him.

John watched as his sats rose to 93, and nodded. “Do I need to run to the paediatric floor and get some of those sticky pads they use on preemies?” he teased. “So you can't pull it off?”

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at John, but couldn't deny he was feeling better.

 

John settled back in his chair. “I've called Mrs Hudson and told her not to come until morning. No need for her to be here when we don't know anything.”

“Don't we?” Sherlock muttered.

“Well, no. Not really. I mean, they told me you passed out from low oxygen saturation due to an arrhythmia, but they don't know what caused the arrhythmia. They also said that you have some fluid in your lungs. Have you been feeling alright lately? And don't lie to me, because this is important.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “I had a headache for most of yesterday, which I wrote off as being due to not eating. Muscle aches, but I attributed those to the ridiculous chase after the goose earlier in the week.” He rolled his eyes, and John couldn't help but share the sentiment. There had been far too many cases with animals in the past week for John's liking.

“Did you catch the dog?” he asked.

John startled. “What? No. I was a bit distracted by you passing out.”

Sherlock grunted. “Pity.”

 

“So... Where's Mycroft?” John asked. Normally Sherlock's older brother showed up shortly after he was admitted to hospital, but it was going on several hours now, and there was still no sign of him.

“I suspect he won't show up until we have more answers,” Sherlock sighed. “If only it could be like that all the time.”

John smiled.

 

There was a knock at the door. A radiology tech.

“X-rays and echo time,” John told Sherlock, who only scowled at the mere thought.

John wasn't looking forward to this.


	3. Chapter 3

John had to leave the room for the x-rays, which they'd decided to do in the room rather than drag Sherlock to radiology. There was probably a note in his file about the incident with the MRI. John wished he could forget that.

He headed to the cafeteria to find something that Sherlock would actually eat, then to the gift shop to browse. No one had called him, which would have been the first step if Sherlock had decided not to cooperate, or if he was done and just moaning about being lonely.

When he finally wandered back in, wondering what had taken so long, the young man was just finishing up the echocardiogram. Sherlock was lying there looking exasperated, but the tech looked no worse for wear. John was rather impressed.

“You should've called me back for this,” he said, shooting a glance at Sherlock, who looked away innocently.

“Oh, he wasn't bad,” the young man commented cheerfully. “Once he got past the part about me being gay, he seemed to lose steam.”

“Sherlock...” John groaned. “I'm so sorry,” he said to the man.

“Oh it's fine, really. None of the other guys wanted to come, apparently there was some incident with the MRI recently, but I wanted to meet Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock smirked at John.

“I'm not done with you,” he warned. “Thank you. When will Doctor Coleman be able to look at the results?” he asked.

“Shouldn't be long. There's a rush on his films.”

John nodded and closed the door as he left.

He spun around to face Sherlock. “Not okay,” he said firmly.

“What?” Sherlock asked, a bewildered expression on his face.

“You cannot just 'out' people because you feel like it,” he informed Sherlock. “You're lucky he didn't try to hurt you,” he added under his breath.

Sherlock only shrugged in response.

“I got you something from the cafeteria. Gelatin. Eat it,” he ordered.

Sherlock frowned as he poked the jiggling green mass that John place before him.

“I like red better,” he said mournfully.

John rolled his eyes. “I'll keep that in mind for next time.”

 

Sherlock picked at his gelatin for the next hour, muttering things under his breath about experiments and different mediums, when finally Doctor Coleman arrived.

“I have the lab results, the chest x-ray, and the echo results.”

“Dull!” Sherlock declared.

John shook his head and brought out the last bag.

He'd gotten a little wooden puzzle from the gift shop, six pieces of wood that were supposed to form a cross. Sherlock's eyes lit up as he tore the box open and set to work on it.

“Whatever, just tell John,” he ordered, shooing them out of the room with one hand, the other balancing three of the sticks in a t shape.

“I'll be back shortly,” he told Sherlock, who only ignored him.


	4. Chapter 4

“Labs show his electrolytes are slightly off, which I understand isn't unusual for him.” John nodded and he continued. “His CRP is elevated, as is his BNP. Kidney functions tests show that they're working fine, so the swelling isn't from anything renal.” John nodded. Sherlock's legs were puffier than usual, something he hadn't noticed until his legs were exposed in the hospital gown. “Other labs were more or less normal and we've sent a culture off.”

John nodded.

“Chest x-rays show some fluid in his lungs like what we were hearing, but not pneumonia.”

John frowned. “And the echo?”

“The echo shows an ejection fraction of less than 35 percent, which isn't ideal. His heart isn't pumping enough blood, and the symptoms of that are evident in the echo, and confirmed by the x-ray as well as the labs.”

John frowned. It was all rather concerning, but still didn't give him a definitive answer. “So what do you think it is?”

“It's probably viral myocarditis. We've got him on antibiotics just to be safe, but the damage is already done.”

John gaped at him. “Damage... you mean... Sherlock has heart damage?”

Doctor Coleman nodded. “It's quite severe. John,” he said gently. “I'd like to do an assessment for putting him on the transplant list right away.”

John's head snapped up and he glared. “A heart transplant?” he hissed. “What about medications? Or an LVAD? Or even surgery? You can't honestly be telling me there's nothing you can do besides give up on him!” John paced around the room, growing more agitated.

Doctor Coleman only watched him patiently. “An LVAD could help for a short period of time, but it's not a solution. Same with medications or other procedures, They will be considered as his condition worsens, but he needs to be put on the transplant list before that happens.”

Doctor Coleman spoke for a bit longer, but John was still wrapping his head around the fact that Sherlock _needed a heart transplant._ He wasn't quite listening.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock still didn't have the puzzle finished when John had calmed himself down and returned to the room. He took some bitter pleasure in that, that at least Sherlock would be occupied.

“So?” he asked, fiddling with the pieces, which were not at all looking like a cross.

No such luck for John. He sighed before starting to talk.

“You know you have a stupid blood type, right?” he began.

Sherlock glanced at him. Body language wasn't promising. “It's hardly stupid,” he countered. “Besides, what's yours? O-?”

John's head shot up. “How did you- no, you know what, never mind. Probably best not to know.” He sighed, resting his head in his hands. “Anyway, you've got like the second or third most rare blood type, which is just typical.”

“John,” Sherlock interjected. “How is this relevant?”

John stared at him. “Because it's harder-” he choked on the words.

“John,” Sherlock insisted. “Tell me.”

“It's harder to find compatible organs,” John finished miserably.

Sherlock's heart sank, which was probably the worst thing that could happen.

“What?” he gasped.

John sat up, worried. “Just, calm down Sherlock. It's going to be fine.”

“How is this fine?” Sherlock bellowed.

John glanced at the monitors, dangerously close to starting to chirp like a horde of angry birds.

“Breathe! Breathe Sherlock!”

“Like I'm going to stop!” he snapped, but it seemed he listened to John. His heart rate slowed, and no alarms went off.

“There's no need to get so worked up about it,” John soothed, in a voice much calmer than he felt. The doctor part of him was seeping through.

“It? What would 'it' be?” Sherlock snapped. “That fact that I'm going to need a transplant? Of what even? A heart?”

John nodded. “The myocarditis, that's the infection you had, it damaged your heart. It's... it's pretty bad. You're not going to drop dead any time soon,” he continued hastily, “but it could very well kill you down the road. That's why Doctor Coleman wants to put you on the transplant list as soon as possible, just so we have that option.”

Sherlock watched silently as John finished talking.

“I need a heart transplant,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” John confirmed, letting it sink in.

“A heart,” he echoed. “One that comes from someone else that they will just stick inside me.” Sherlock frowned.

“It's not that bad Sherlock,” John began, worried Sherlock was going to start freaking out about it. This was the same man who wouldn't let John try his pasta when they were out for dinner because he could (in Sherlock's words) 'infect it'. John could hardly imagine what his feelings would be for an entire organ if that was his reaction to a little saliva.

“Of course not,” Sherlock dismissed. “It will be quite fascinating.”

“Yeah,” John said weakly, slouching back in his chair. “I suppose it could be.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was only just after dinner time, but Sherlock soon fell asleep. John took that opportunity to make another call, one that he'd been dreading.

He dialled the number in the waiting room, not trusting that Sherlock was actually asleep and not listening.

 

“John,” he was greeted.

“Mycroft,” he replied. “I assume you know about Sherlock's condition?”

There was a slight pause. “I am aware he is in hospital, but beyond that, I have little information.”

John sighed and rubbed his eyes, wondering how to break it to him.

“He has heart damage, Mycroft. And it's not just minor. He got an infection that attacked his heart, and it's not functioning properly.”

Mycroft was silent. “And what is being done about it?”

“There's not much they can do. They're stabilizing him now, getting his blood work back to normal and giving him antibiotics in case the infection is bacterial, but there isn't a whole lot they can do. Damage like that can't just be undone.” John sighed again before continuing. “He needs a heart transplant Mycroft.”

Mycroft didn't reply, so John went on. “He's got to pass a battery of tests, including psychological ones, to ensure that he can take care of the heart afterwards. But seriously Mycroft,” he continued, still pacing around the room. “Why would they give him a heart? I mean, he gets shot and stabbed more than anyone else in the city, he's not exactly psychologically stable, and he's already had problems with substance abuse. Even if I was on the transplant committee, I wouldn't give him the heart.”

The line was silent.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighed.

“And this isn't even something you can fix, or make better, because it doesn't work that way. You can't buy organs, and you can't get your brother approved for one.” John stopped pacing. “Right?”

Mycroft hummed. “I'll be in to see him tomorrow. Do look after him.”

John sighed. “Of course.” Before he could say anything else, Mycroft had already hung up. John stared at his phone for a minute. For some reason, talking to Mycroft always left him with more questions than answers, and generally in a worse mood than he was to begin with.

He grumbled as he headed back to Sherlock's room, where the detective lay sprawled in the bed, one arm hanging off, staring at the ceiling. No longer sleeping, if he'd ever been.

John stood in the doorway for a moment, trying to figure out what he was looking at. If anything.

He gave up, and walked in, shaking his head as he examined the monitors. At least he'd left the oxygen on, which was a pretty big deal. Every other time he'd been in the hospital he'd ripped it off as soon as he was conscious, moaning about it being too loud.

John didn't want to think about the implications of that.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sighed loudly for the second time in as many minutes. He had his laptop, but was staring at the screen with disinterest.

“All the cases on my website are stupid or exceedingly dull,” he said, sighing again. “I need a good serial killer, or a locked room murder, or anything at all to do,” he moaned. “A crime scene, a chase, a fight. Something. _Anything._ ” He kicked his feet like a small child having a temper tantrum.

 

John had been reading through Sherlock's chart, examining all his labs again. He set it down on his lap. “Sherlock!” he hissed. “You need a bloody heart transplant. You cannot just go waltzing around chasing criminals like everything is fine, because it is absolutely not!”

Sherlock stared at him. “Why not?”

“... Are you being serious?” John choked.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. “Yes. I don't see how needing a heart transplant should prevent me from doing anything.”

John choked for a moment before answering, Sherlock watching him with intrigue.

“Sherlock, the whole point of needing a heart transplant is that yours isn't working anymore. It's not like we decided you could do with a new one, just because that one is getting a bit old. It's _failing_ , Sherlock. Actually failing! That's not something you can just get over, or push past because you think it's only transport. Like it or not, without transport, you have _nothing._ ”

Sherlock examined John critically after he finished that.

“Fine,” he said quietly.

John froze. “What?”

“I said fine.”

John frowned. “No, you don't just say fine. You fight me every step of the way, argue, try to use screwed up Sherlockian logic on me, until you finally get exhausted and give in or Mycroft shows up.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not this time,” he sighed, and there was a hint of something in his voice that John hadn't heard from Sherlock before.

Like exhaustion.

Looking closely, John could see the tiny signs that Sherlock had been desperate to hide. The bags under his eyes, the unhealthy colour of his skin, the lines around his eyes that told John more than any of Sherlock's words ever could.

 

“Are you alright if I stay at the flat tonight?” he asked, watching Sherlock carefully for his reaction.

“Of course,” he replied, looking away.

Something in the back of John's mind tickled.

 

_Sherlock waking up after being shot, hand frantically groping around for John's. Sherlock after being stabbed, calling out for John, smiling when he saw him. Sherlock refusing to let any other doctor besides John stitch him up._

 

“Actually,” he amended. “I just have to run home to grab some things, and then I'll be back. Any requests?”

Sherlock examined him. “Violin,” he said finally. “The skull. And my dressing gown.”

“Which one?”

“Blue.”

“And for god's sake Sherlock, I am not bringing the skull.”

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, but John could see the hints of a smile at the edge of his mouth.

“Also, you behave, or I will keep your dressing gown hostage,” he warned. “And that means keep the oxygen on the whole time. And don't think I won't know, because I will.”

Sherlock frowned. “You couldn't.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Wanna try me?”

 _A challenge._ One he was sure to lose.

Sherlock only sighed. “Just try to not mess up the sock index. Again.”

John shook his head as he left.

Sherlock toyed with the idea of pulling the oxygen off, looping the tubing around his fingers.

He really would like to know how John would be able to tell, but didn't think it was worth the risk.

And he did feel better. Not that John needed to know that of course, because he would moan the whole time about it. And they both knew it was a show. Mostly. (Because it was irritating to be hooked up to the wall, and the whistling noise was eventually going to burrow its way into his brain.) Sherlock didn't know why they both kept pretending.

Sentiment?

No...

 

Sherlock fell asleep before he could come up with an answer.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a long night. Sherlock woke up before John got back and panicked, not quite remembering what had happened or what he was doing in the bloody hospital. Again.

Thankfully, John arrived just before the nurses sedated him.

Sherlock sulked for a few minutes, but stopped when he realized John wasn't going to give him his dressing gown until he explained what happened.

“I was... disoriented,” he declared, staring at John. He held his hand out.

John sighed, but passed over the bundle of blue fabric, which Sherlock struggled to put on with all the wires and tubes.

He got one arm in before leaning back on the pillows, looking defeated.

John helped him weave his other arm through along with the tubes and wires without saying a word. He sat back down in the chair, feeling thoroughly wrung out.

“You're not getting the violin until the morning,” he told Sherlock.

He pretended to be upset, but John could see he was exhausted, his eyes barely able to stay open.

“Go to sleep,” he muttered, rubbing his own eyes, and wondering who he was really talking to.

Sherlock huffed, but John noticed his eyes slipping shut as he wrestled the chair into a pull out cot better suited for a toddler than any adult human. Thankfully, John was able to curl up on it comfortably enough. He half expected Sherlock to make a comment about his height, but he didn't. And honestly, John would have preferred if he did.

 

They both fell asleep quickly, but it was the curse of being in hospital that neither of them stayed that way for long.

Between vital checks during the night, and the one time Sherlock managed to pull off an ECG lead, causing the machine to alarm, declaring to the whole world _a heart stopped over here, come pay attention, fix me fix me or I will continue to shout_ when it was only Sherlock twisting in his sleep.

Needless to say, neither of them were in a very good mood the following morning when someone from the transplant team came to visit, showering them with pamphlets and heaps of information that went over their heads.

The only bright point in that was that the poor person seemed to recognize that, and mostly left after a brief overview, leaving them with stacks of reading in neat little glossy piles.

 

Sherlock seemed more interested in them than John, who already knew most of the information.

“There are...” he turned the pamphlet upside down. “Two types of heart transplants? What is this?” he asked, shoving the pamphlet at John.

John looked at it. “Oh it's just whether or not they leave the old heart in, or take it out.”

Sherlock frowned. “What am I having?”

John smiled. “You'll only have one heart when you're done. Your condition doesn't require you to have two. Pity,” he commented. “Could have been a time lord.”

Sherlock frowned at him.

John laughed. “It's from-”

“I know where it's from,” Sherlock snapped.

John rolled his eyes. “Alright. No need to get snippy.”

Sherlock sniffed.

He was quiet, flipping through more pamphlets, generally throwing them aside, until he had a sudden realization.

“John,” he gasped. “Can I keep my heart?”

John didn't know what to say to that. And frankly, he shouldn't have been shocked Sherlock had asked, and yet, he was.

“I honestly don't know. I suppose we could get Mycroft to look into it.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “And have me owe him another favour.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Am I going to have to stay in the hospital the entire time?”

John looked up from his book.

“No,” he said carefully, setting the book down on Sherlock's bed, still open to the page he was on. “They're working to get you stabilized, and they still have you on antibiotics.”

“Even though it's viral...” Sherlock muttered.

“Likely viral,” John corrected. “But anyway, they're working to get your labs back to normal, and the fluid out of your lungs and tissues, and then you should be able to go home.” He hesitated before continuing. “It won't be the same though,” he warned. “You'll be mostly resting. Staying in the flat. Nothing strenuous. And absolutely no running after criminals.”

“Crime scenes?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

John shrugged. “It all depends on how you're doing that day. Some days you will be able to go to crime scenes and feel alright, other days it would completely knock you out. And those days, I will be the one making the decision to not go rather than have you collapse.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Like it or not Sherlock, I'll be making a lot of your health based decisions from now on,” John informed him.

“Like you didn't before?” he snapped.

“Sherlock,” he sighed. “I know you hate this, but I'm not fond of it either. It's exhausting to fight with you, especially considering it's your body, but I am honestly only trying to do what's best for you. And from now on, that doesn't just mean making you eat and sleep, it means making sure you stay healthy enough to receive a heart when they get one.” John examined Sherlock, who had curled up slightly as he'd said that. “Alright?” he murmured.

Sherlock sighed in that endearing way of his, letting John know that he wasn't pleased (as per usual) but agreed.

“Thank you,” John sighed, going to pick up his book off of Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock's foot twitched slightly, and John's book toppled onto the floor, losing the page he was on.

“Oops,” Sherlock noted, not sounding at all like it was a mistake.

John bent over to pick it up, and flipped through the pages, sighing.

He wasn't enjoying it anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

Indeed, by the end of the week, the hellish week that it was, Sherlock was cleared for discharge.

 

John hadn't been back to the flat since the previous morning, and was mildly interested to find what had magically appeared courtesy of Mycroft.

He'd come to visit the morning after John had called, just as he said he would.

* * *

 

“John,” he'd greeted him, glancing at Sherlock laying in the bed, eyes closed.

“Mycroft,” John returned. “He's not sleeping by the way.”

“I thought not,” Mycroft commented.

“Thanks a lot John,” Sherlock hissed.

John shot him a glance. “Really? He was bound to notice sooner or later, and at least this way it should be over with sooner.”

Mycroft's mouth twitched in something that could have been a smile, if his face hadn't forgotten how to. He pulled a chair up and sat next to the bed.

 

“Doctor Watson has informed me that one of the stages in being listed for transplant is a psychological evaluation. Although he has not told me, I know he is worried you will fail, or otherwise make an unfavourable impression.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't speak. Mycroft continued.

“With your history of reckless behaviour and substance abuse, there are already a number of factors working against you. And I need to be sure that you won't be making any others before I endorse anything.”

Sherlock stared at him with a steely glance. Mycroft returned it in kind.

“I have no plans to return to the recreational use of drugs, Mycroft,” he said coldly.

“Excellent. I shall inform the transplant team. Do try to pass the psychological evaluation. I know you can if you want to. John, perhaps you should appeal to him. He does seem to listen to you more than me,” he smirked. It was an expression John had seen many times before when it came to him and Sherlock, but never from Mycroft. And with that, he left.

 

John looked at Sherlock. “Please Sherlock,” he pleaded. “I know you can. I've seen you cry on command. You can put forth the impression of someone who is willing to take care of a new heart like I know you will. And don’t say that you don't, because I can see it. But not everyone else is as good as me at reading your tells. So for god's sake Sherlock, please, just for once, behave.”

Sherlock frowned. “I'm not stupid John. I know that this is a requirement for me to be put on the transplant list. And despite what you and my brother may think, I do not wish to die. I'll behave.”

John breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

 

That afternoon, Sherlock passed his psychological evaluation with flying colours, and was officially put on the transplant list.

* * *

 

Arriving back at the flat, John couldn't help but wonder if Mycroft had more of a hand in it than he'd like to admit, simply based on what he was able to procure for John.

 

Because he certainly hadn't disappointed. All the things John could have needed, cardiac drugs, defibrillator, oxygen, it was all there, neatly tucked away, but at the ready. Sherlock didn't seem as pleased. He wandered off to his room, muttering obscenities under his breath. John chose to ignore him.

They were home. Home was good.

 


	11. Chapter 11

“John, when do I get my heart?”

John glanced up from his laptop. “Sherlock, it's been a week.”

“God, is that all,” he moaned. He had sprawled himself out on the couch with his arms dangling off the side. It didn't look very comfortable.

“You're only a status two,” he reminded him.

“I don't remember what that means,” he grumbled.

John sighed. “You're not at the top of the list, because there are people who are more ill than you waiting for organs.”

“So?”

John rubbed his face. He swore Sherlock was doing this on purpose. “People who need them get them first. You are in no immediate danger of dying right now.” _Unless I kill you myself,_ he added mentally.

Sherlock scowled. “I am so. Dying of boredom.”

John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “What about the experiment with the fish? The one you were so insistent you had to finish when you were in the hospital.”

Sherlock rolled over slightly, and John swore he almost fell off the couch.

“They're dead John.”

“What?” he choked.

“The fish. Are. Dead. John.” he repeated. “Is that difficult to understand?”

“What the hell did you do to them? I made sure Mrs Hudson fed them everyday while you were in hospital, and I followed your bloody instructions to the letter. How did they die?” he demanded.

Sherlock shrugged and muttered something under his breath.

“You know what? I actually don't want to know,” John replied, shaking his head. He returned to his laptop.

“They ate each other,” Sherlock mumbled, just loud enough for John to hear.

“For god's sake!” John slammed his laptop shut and stalked off to his room.

“No more pets!” he called over his shoulder.


	12. Chapter 12

“You're flushed,” John noted.

Another week later, Sherlock was sitting over his microscope examining dirt samples that John had picked up for him from a crime scene.

“It's warm in here,” he muttered, not looking up.

John shook his head. “No, it's really not.”

Sherlock ignored him, hoping he would go away.

He did, only to return with a thermometer.

“Open,” he demanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed John to stick the thermometer under his tongue and waited until it beeped.

“You have a fever,” John noted. “That's bad. Very bad.”

Sherlock sighed. “Well, it'd hardly be good.”

“Shirt,” John ordered, getting to his feet. “And go sit on the couch.”

Sherlock sighed again, more dramatically this time, but shrugged his shirt off like John had ordered him to and slouched on the couch.

“You should probably go to the hospital, even if it's just to get some labs done, but I doubt you'll go for that.”

Sherlock grunted in response.

John shook his head, returning with one of the bags Mycroft had left. It had stayed in the corner up until now, John not needing it. If only it could stay that way.

He began attaching the sticky pads to Sherlock's chest and connected them to wires.

“Really John?” Sherlock sighed.

“Yes. Shut up and put this on,” he ordered, throwing a finger clip at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and thought about protesting, but knew he would only end up in the same place, and one of those options had a far grumpier John.

“Your sats are good, and your heart rhythm is normal, if a little bit accelerated,” John noted. “Take some paracetamol and a nap.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really?”

John stared him down. “You can't afford to get sick. Your heart is already working harder than it should be, and you don't need to stress it out further.”

Sherlock sighed, but swallowed the pills John threw at him, and reluctantly curled up on the couch.

“Tell Lestrade none of them are a match,” he murmured.

John smiled. “Sure.”


	13. Chapter 13

By the next morning, Sherlock had deteriorated. John spent the night in his room, checking on him every ten minutes or so, noting his temperature, pulse, and oxygen saturations. Sherlock slept fitfully, often waking up for brief periods where he wasn't lucid, convinced he was still dreaming. John just crossed his fingers until he went back to sleep.

By morning, John was exhausted, and Sherlock looked as though he was too.

His colour wasn't good, and he stuck the finger probe on as he attached the ECG leads.

“Sats are only 83,” he noted grimly. “Don't move,” he ordered over his shoulder as he left the room.

Sherlock was silent for a minute. “And where was I supposed to go?” he muttered to himself, or perhaps to the empty room.

John returned with the oxygen cylinder in tow.

“Seriously?” he whined.

John glared at him. “Seriously. Your sats are too low. I was optimistic that when you were awake they would perk up, but since that's not happening, and if anything, getting worse, I am absolutely serious.”

Sherlock scowled, but let John hook him up to the oxygen.

“Sats are up to 89,” he noted a minute later. “But I'm not liking the looks of the ECG.”

He looked at Sherlock. “I think we're going to have to go to the hospital again. I can call ahead to minimize the time in A&E, but it's looking like a hospital trip will be inevitable.”

Sherlock groaned. “John, I don't have time for this.”

“Yes, because your continued existence is such a _pain,_ ” John smirked.

Sherlock scowled. “Whatever.”

“I'll go call now.”

 

Doctor Coleman agreed with John's assessment, and told them that A&E would be ready for them, and that Sherlock would quickly be moved to the CICU. John was relieved about that. The less time spent in A&E the better, not only for the nurses and doctors there who Sherlock took great pleasure in abusing, but because of the possibility for infection. Sherlock was already sick and sure didn't need anything else.

 

He bundled Sherlock up in his coat and scarf and tucked him into a cab, oxygen still in tow.

Sherlock wasn't pleased about it, but didn't seem to have the energy to argue.

They were in A&E for less than twenty minutes before Sherlock was transferred to the care of Doctor Coleman, who was waiting for Sherlock in the CICU.

Labs and chest x-rays were ordered, and Sherlock wordlessly complied with them, only glaring.

 

Pneumonia was the conclusion. One of the last things Sherlock needed at that time.

He was started on antibiotics and diuretics. His chest x-ray didn't look terrible, but John knew he could get worse quickly, and was prepared for that.

 

“Can he be moved up the list?” he asked the doctor.

Sherlock's lab results were back and were not looking promising.

“Not with the infection. But I think as a result of this infection, his heart is going to weaken. When he recovers from this, he will likely be eligible for 1B status.”

John nodded, suddenly exhausted. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Doctor Coleman patted him on the shoulder. “We're all doing what we can. Just make sure Sherlock keeps on doing his best too.”

John smiled. “Yeah.”

 

Sherlock was asleep when John returned to his room. Or at least he appeared to be.

John sat down in the chair and quickly fell asleep as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to make me art of sleepy!Sherlock curled up in a cab with John, I'd love you forever.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock did well up until the evening, when he grew tired and cranky, and it showed.

His feet had been kicked on top of his sheets and he moaned to John that his feet were cold.

“So put them back under the blanket,” he suggested.

“Too much work,” he grumbled.

John sighed. “Want socks?”

Sherlock shook his head petulantly.

He sighed and huffed for another few minutes before John couldn't take it anymore.

He got up without a word, fetched another sheet from one of the nurses, and draped it across Sherlock's feet.

“Happy?”

Sherlock grumbled something, and it seemed to be approval.

John returned to his seat.

 

Five minutes later, Sherlock kicked that sheet off too, moaning about how his feet were hot.

“I'm not fixing it when you start moaning about how your feet are cold shortly,” he informed Sherlock, who scoffed at the thought.

 

Of course, John was right. Not even ten minutes later, Sherlock was twisted around in the bed, shuffling his feet like an infant.

“Hmm,” John commented.

“Oh, don't pretend you're reading,” Sherlock snapped. “You've been on that page for that last thirty minutes.”

John lowered the book. It was true, and even more than that, he'd read the same paragraph at least five times and still didn't know what happened in it.

“Maybe it's because someone keeps bothering me,” he suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly,” he muttered.

John raised an eyebrow. “Oh, was I just imagining getting you a blanket and fighting with you about your bloody feet?” He continued at Sherlock's blank expression. “I didn't think so.”

Sherlock flopped onto his side away from John and huffed.

“You could be nicer,” he muttered. “I'm _ill._ ”

“Being ill does not give you a license to be a prat,” he reminded the lump on the bed.

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

“But I have a fever,” he insisted. “I'm obviously not thinking straight.”

John snorted. “Obviously not if you admitted that.”

Sherlock sighed and moaned a bit more before John gave up on the book completely and got up to rest a hand on Sherlock's forehead.

“The monitors are perfectly capable of measuring my temperature,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Your technique is hardly accurate.”

“Shut up,” he ordered.

He could see the slight smile stretch across Sherlock's face. “Abhorrent bedside manner,” he noted.

John smirked. “Yeah, well, if my patients complain I suppose I can always quit.”

He removed his hand from Sherlock's forehead. “I concur with what the monitors are saying. You are feverish, and you haven't had any meds for that in a while, so I'm going to go check with the nurses. Feet covered up or uncovered?” he asked.

“Covered.”

John tugged the second sheet out from where it had been crumpled near the end of the bed and draped it across Sherlock's feet, patting it down before leaving.

Sherlock scowled at him.


	15. Chapter 15

John returned with medication to treat the fever as well as a sedative.

“This should help,” he told Sherlock, injecting it into his IV line.

Sherlock's feet were uncovered again.

He only grumbled in response.

 

Less than ten minutes later, he was asleep, knocked out by a combination of medication and pure exhaustion. Sometimes he just needed that extra little push.

 

John was also exhausted, but too wired to fall asleep any time soon. With his luck, he'd drift off just as Sherlock woke up. He covered Sherlock's feet up, noting that he didn't so much as stir at the change in sensation. John placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead, noting that it wasn't much cooler, but should soon change.

And finally, he examined the monitors containing all of Sherlock's vital signs. Respiratory rate a bit high, heart rate a bit high too, but at least with a normal rhythm, and the most worrying of all, his oxygen saturation levels. Sherlock had pneumonia, so it made sense that they were a bit low, but he was on oxygen, which should have helped.

John knew that Sherlock slept like he was dead, and with the addition of a sedative, probably wasn't going to wake up any time soon.

So he replaced the nasal cannula with an oxygen mask on Sherlock's face, noting with satisfaction that Sherlock didn't so much as twitch. He liked his vital signs much more after that.

 

John had just sat in the chair at Sherlock's bedside when Doctor Coleman appeared at the door.

“Is this a bad time?” he mouthed.

John shook his head and waved him in. “He's completely out of it,” he confirmed.

Doctor Coleman pulled up a chair next to John. It was one of the uncomfortable chairs, not one of the comfortable ones John was sitting in.

“I gave him a sedative when I gave him his other meds,” John admitted. “He was kicking his blanket off like a toddler. I couldn't take much more of it, and he was obviously exhausted.”

The doctor smiled. “That's understandable.”

“And his sats were a bit lower than I liked, so I stuck a mask on him. As long as he's asleep, we'll be fine. The moment he wakes up...” John trailed off, shaking his head.

The doctor nodded. “I have his latest lab results back. There's not much change, except I am certain he will now qualify for 1B status after he recovers from this infection.”

John sagged in his chair. Whether it was from relief or worry, he wasn't quite sure.

“Alright,” he agreed. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Doctor Coleman replied, rising from his chair and heading to the door. “Good luck,” he said, smiling at Sherlock, and with that he left.

John rubbed his face. God knows he needs it.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

John's predictions were correct. Sherlock managed to sleep until morning, and John apparently fell asleep some time in there. And as soon as Sherlock awoke, he ripped off the oxygen mask.

“Really John?”

John could only shrug at him.

 

Sherlock's chest x-ray that day showed the pneumonia hadn't worsened, which John was immeasurably relieved about. It seems that they may have caught it in time.

 

And indeed, for the next few days, Sherlock only improved. His chest x-ray cleared up and his fever disappeared. His labs didn't really improve, but neither John or Doctor Coleman had expected them to.

 

But despite Sherlock's pneumonia resolving, his appearance didn't improve, and neither did his sats.

Which meant it was time for John to have the talk with him.


	17. Chapter 17

John knew that Sherlock would be able to tell by the look on his face that he needed to have a serious conversation.

He tossed aside the wooden cross puzzle, which he still hadn't managed to solve. (John had set it aside only for hospital visits.) Sherlock looked at him.

“What is it?”

John tried to get comfortable in the chair.

“We need to talk about surgery again. There's a device called an LVAD. It stands for a left ventricular assist device, and it's implanted to give your heart extra help. It just helps pump the blood, which your heart isn't as able to do right not.”

Sherlock stared at him.

“But if you got it, you might not be able to return home until you got a new heart. Even with me,” he added as Sherlock started to open his mouth.

“And I know how much that bothers you,” he continued, his voice wavering slightly. “But Sherlock, at the rate you're deteriorating, you'll likely be intubated by the end of the week, and possibly dead by the end of the next.” He took a deep breath to compose himself. “And I know you sometimes say that you'd rather die than be forced to stay in bed, or in hospital, but Sherlock... you're going to die either way. And it could be next week if you don't get the LVAD, or it could be in twenty years after you get a transplant. But I'm just saying... at this point, you don't have much to lose, and so much more to gain.” His voice broke, but he forged onwards. “And I'm saying this as your friend, and not as your doctor, that I would very much like it if you could live for twenty more years. So that's just something to think about.”

He sniffed quietly, and Sherlock pretended to not pay any attention as John wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jumper.

“Oh god,” he choked, like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry, glancing up at the ceiling. Sherlock didn't know what the fascination was with it. “I'm sorry. I know it's your choice and everything, but for fuck's sake Sherlock, even just thinking about losing you hurts too much.”

Sherlock didn't know what the proper response was in a situation like this. He just waited quietly.

After a minute of staring up at the ceiling and excessive blinking, John had regained his composure. “I can get you some literature on the subject of course. I know you like having all the facts before making a decision.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you John,” he whispered, suddenly feeling exhausted despite having done nothing that day besides sleep and listen to John.

“I'll go get some stuff now,” he mumbled, creaking as he got out of the chair and stretched.

Sherlock watched him go, and didn't mean to, but fell asleep waiting for him to get back.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock made his decision. He supposed, deep down, he already had.

But he carefully read through the studies John had brought him from his medical journals at home, and the pamphlets that they gave to everyone who they told about the surgery, and he looked it up online, and he made his decision.

Meaning he told John what he wanted to hear.

 

“Are you sure Sherlock? I mean, I know I encouraged you, but it is your decision.”

Sherlock could tell it pained John to say that, holding all that hope back, not wanting to be crushed if he changed his mind.

“I'm sure,” Sherlock said, more confidently than he felt. And he was pretty sure. He was sick of not being able to catch his breath getting out of bed. It was ridiculous.

He wanted to feel better, even if he had to be attached to a battery pack to do it.

“I'm sure,” he repeated. And it was worth it to see John's face relax in relief.

 

The surgery was scheduled for the next afternoon.

Sherlock noted that John slept fitfully that night.


	19. Chapter 19

John claimed he made it through the surgery with 'flying colours', but Sherlock felt like anything but had occurred.

He was still intubated when he awoke, which John soon remedied, inducing coughing which made him feel like his chest was about to split open.

“What?” he choked. “What did they do to me?”

John rolled his eyes while pushing Sherlock back down in the bed and strapping oxygen to his face. “I thought you read all the pamphlets. You had open heart surgery. It tends to hurt. Do you need meds?”

Sherlock took a minute to think that over. Once he stopped coughing, it was a lot better. He could feel the faint haze of drugs already in his system.

“Not right now,” he whispered, his throat hurting.

But John, the wonderful man, must have been psychic, because he had ice chips at the ready to spoon into Sherlock's mouth. They were wonderful and cold, and tasted as good as anything he'd ever eaten. Or recently anyway. (Hospital food. Ugh.)

After his throat was moistened and the aching in his chest dulled, he could feel the tug of another incision, one that had weight to it.

Which would be the power supply that led to the new pump in his chest, helping the old and defective one.

It was interesting. He now had a wire leading out of him that could hook up to a machine, or a battery, that would help his heart beat.

 _Fascinating_.

Somehow he felt John would not allow him to do any experiments.

He decided he was okay with that.

 

He must have fallen back asleep, because when he awoke, John was curled up in the chair asleep, and his chest was aching even more than before.

He tried to sit up slightly, but it hurt too much, and he may have let out a slight groan.

John awoke immediately. Damn him.

“Sherlock?” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

“Erg,” he replied.

John's face furrowed.

“Hurts,” Sherlock amended.

John nodded, and pushed a button on one of Sherlock's IVs. “How do you feel otherwise?”

Sherlock took stock of his body. His breathing seemed to be a bit better, and he didn't have a mask on his face, which was a good sign. If John had been worried, he would have seen to it. So that was good. And he didn't feel as puffy, which was another good sign. His kidneys were working better then, with the increased blood flow.

“Alright,” he concluded.

John smiled. “Excellent. That's really great. The surgery did go well you know. I don't know if you remember me telling you that. You were a bit drugged at the time.”

“I remember,” Sherlock muttered, already feeling the haze of the pain medication clouding over him.

He could hear John's smile in his voice. “Just checking,” he said. He might have said more after that, but Sherlock seemed to have fallen asleep. He seemed to be doing an awful lot of that lately.


	20. Chapter 20

Despite John's predictions, after two weeks, Sherlock was discharged home.

Sherlock couldn't have been more thrilled, but John was more hesitant. He liked the stability of the hospital, of knowing that a team was always only minutes away, that he could get second opinions, and that someone else was watching over Sherlock when John slept.

But he couldn't deny Sherlock was looking better than he had in weeks that afternoon when they arrived back at the flat. And it wasn't all just from the surgery. A huge part of that was that Sherlock was happy. Emotional well-being was a huge factor in overall health.

So John just made sure to stress the importance of LVAD care, and warned Sherlock repeatedly not to do anything stupid. (He wasn't sure if it sank in the first couple of times.)

Mycroft took care of the rest, and Mrs Hudson was absolutely thrilled to have them home again.

 

“Oh Sherlock,” she called, throwing her arms around him as he stood in the hallway, quite stunned by the sudden show of affection.

“Oh. Hello Mrs Hudson. Perhaps you could let go of me...”

She gasped and backed away. “Did I hurt you?” she squeaked, holding her hands to her mouth.

“Not at all,” Sherlock assured her. John expected he was lying. Sherlock's incisions were still tender, and he hadn't managed to figure out how to arrange all the wires so they didn't tug at the healing wounds yet. He was wearing the vest that he'd been given at the hospital to hold the LVAD batteries and controller, even after moaned about it for nearly an hour. He gave in when John pointed out he wouldn't be leaving otherwise. He was still muttering about it under his breath on the ride over before John gave him a look that Sherlock suspected could kill lesser mortals. (Perhaps an experiment?)

 

Mrs Hudson finished her hovering and wandered back downstairs, only afte giving Sherlock another hug, which he tried very hard not to wince during.

Sherlock threw himself on the couch after that, and didn't say anything when John switched him from batteries to the larger power unit that plugged into the wall. He stuck the batteries into the charger and headed into the kitchen to make tea.

 

Honestly, they had enough spare batteries to last them through a week long black out, which John supposed was the point. Still, the storage was rather problematic, John opening kitchen cupboards looking for tea or glassware, only to find more neat stacks. He was beginning to wonder what the hell Mycroft had done with them.

 

Sherlock didn't share John's concerns, too busy dissecting one of the many batteries after John had changed him over to the larger unit.

“You're not doing any experiments on yourself,” John warned.

“I'm aware,” Sherlock muttered, not looking up.

John watched him for a second before returning to the kitchen, shaking his head.

He finally found the tea in the cupboard that previously held the current set of mould experiments. Sherlock was going to be _pissed._

John grinned.

 


	21. Chapter 21

John was understandably worried when he took Sherlock to his first crime scene since the surgery.

 

Sherlock had gotten Mrs Hudson to modify his coat to fit the battery packs and controller in. John didn't know how he did it, but knew that despite her repeated choruses of “not your housekeeper”, she was willing to do almost anything for 'her boys'.

John only wondered what Sherlock was supposed to do with his hands when his pockets were full. He supposed he'd find out sooner or later.

 

“Murder?” Sherlock asked skeptically after surveying the scene.

Lestrade nodded. “The security camera on the street shows someone about five eight, average build, leaving here at ten last night. The body was found this morning by her sister.”

“No,” Sherlock dismissed.

“No to what?” Lestrade asked, looking confused.

Sherlock looked at him in disbelief, and turned to John, who could only shrug. “I dunno Sherlock. What are you saying?”

“It's not murder,” he explained, rolling his eyes.

He then went on to explain why in excruciating detail, gesturing wildly with his hands, taking great care to glare at Anderson as he did.

John was rather amused.

 

Sherlock almost fell asleep in the cab on the way home, leaning against John, barely managing to mutter at him that they were taking an inefficient route. John only hushed him.

He did fall asleep when they got back to the flat, not waking up until nearly dinner, which John made soup and sandwiches for.

It had definitely taken a lot out of him, but John wasn't going to make him stop. Not when his eyes lit up like John hadn't seen in weeks, and he'd been more excited than John could remember for a long time. (Incorrectly of course, but the point remained.)

John wasn't going to take that normality away, but he would be there to make sure it wasn't going to kill Sherlock.


	22. Chapter 22

Some days were better than others. It was an inherent fact of life that as time went on, those good days would become fewer and further in between, yet neither of them wanted to admit it.

It had been nearly a month since Sherlock's LVAD surgery, and good days were no longer every other day.

Sherlock was fading, and fading fast. And it was perhaps evident to no one more than it was to John, who was the one who had to tell Sherlock that he wouldn't be going to a crime scene that day, seeing as how he could barely stand up.

 

Tests later that week showed that Sherlock's ejection fraction was down to 25 percent, even with the LVAD assisting.

After much discussion, he was moved to 1A status, the top of the list for transplant.

Sherlock's meds were adjusted, new ones were added, and Sherlock was sent home, John with strict instructions for no strenuous activity and to return with the slightest problem.

 

Sherlock would have argued, but he fell asleep in the cab on the way home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You know when I get my new heart, lie detectors won't work on me anymore.”

“They don't work on you now anyways. You can already trick them,” John reminded his flatmate, perched on the couch in yet another uncomfortable position.

Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. “Yeah, but I'm just saying. Because the nerve that controls heart rate-”

“Is cut during the surgery,” John finished. “You seem to keep forgetting I'm a doctor.”

Sherlock scowled. “Bored. Can't you make it go any faster?”

“You're at the top of the list Sherlock. There's nothing else we can do but wait.”

“Could shoot someone in the head,” he muttered.

“Sherlock!” John chastised. “Don't even say that. Besides,” he added quietly. “There's no guarantee they'd donate anyway.”

Sherlock sighed. “I know. But this is so dull.”

John attempted to smile. “Yes. But sometimes it takes years for an organ to become available.”

“Years of this,” he moaned. “I'd rather die first.”

“Yes, well, I'd rather you didn't thank you very much.”

Sherlock didn't have a response to that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You know how rare it is for myocarditis to cause heart damage severe enough to require a transplant?” Sherlock asked out of the blue.

“Yes,” John confirmed without looking up from his magazine. “It's about one out of one Sherlocks.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes John, you're hilarious.”

“Very rare,” John replied, flipping the page with an awful lot of ruffling. “And I refer you to what I previously said. One out of one Sherlocks.”

Sherlock huffed at John. “You're such a child.”

John snorted. “This is from the man who insisted I get him green gelatin at the hospital because the red one, and I quote, 'looked like it tasted too much like blood.' And this was after you told me you _preferred_ the red. I mean, really Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighed and rolled over.

“Very rare,” he muttered, more to himself than John.

“Yes Sherlock,” John confirmed. “Very rare. You can feel special, or whatever it was you were getting at.”

Sherlock only sighed again.


	23. Chapter 23

The call came at 4:37 am on a Thursday. Despite both of them waiting for it for months now, it had the unexpected reaction of prompting both of them to simply freeze for a while before John raced down the stairs to answer it.

Sherlock stayed in bed, somewhat trapped by the LVAD cables, but mostly too lazy to get out of bed.

He did get out of bed when he heard the news.

 

They had a heart.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“How are you feeling?” John asked Sherlock on the cab ride to the hospital. It was still ridiculously early in the morning, yet he was wide awake with jitters. “Excited? Nervous? Scared?”

“I'm not scared!” he protested.

But John kept looking at him like that, kept looking and just didn't stop, and Sherlock's composure crumbled.

“I'm... terrified,” he whispered.

“I know,” John murmured to him. “So am I.”

His fingers snaked towards Sherlock's, resting on the seat between them, and patted them comfortingly.

 _After today, his nails will return to a normal colour,_ John thought. It made him smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was quickly checked in and prepped for surgery.

John barely had time to say farewell before he was whisked away, and could only think that he may never see him again. There was a very possible chance he wouldn't make it through the surgery.

He banished the thought from his head.


	24. Chapter 24

Heart transplants took forever.

 

And the worst part was, John knew every detail of the surgery. He'd assisted with one while in medical school. He didn't do much of anything, but he watched as an old swollen heart was removed from a chest cavity and replaced with a newer healthier heart, freshly taken from someone dead. It was macabre and magical all at the same time, and John wasn't sure whether he should be shocked or horrified.

 

He spent a good portion of the time pacing through the halls and calling people when the hour was decent.

There was no need to call Mycroft, of course, but John did call Lestrade and Molly, and updated Mrs Hudson, who'd already been alerted when they attempted to leave quietly that morning. He told them there was no point in being there until later, as Sherlock would be in surgery for a while.

Molly didn't listen, and came to sit with him before her shift started. John could tell his pacing unnerved her, and that she was relieved to go when her shift was starting.

 

The sun was well into the sky by the time John started to get actually worried. The surgery should've been done, or near to it, and with the delay, he began to suspect complications.

He forced himself to sit in a chair, his head resting on his hands, breathing deeply.

 

Doctor Coleman was the one to finally come see John, and his own heart wasn't sure what it should be doing, sinking or fluttering, so it mostly made him feel awful.

“How did it go?” he asked faintly.

He nodded. “Well. He's still intubated, but that's not anything you need to be overly worried about. The new heart looks fantastic. All of his vitals are looking good, and the whole surgical team is pleased with how it went. He's in recovery, and you technically aren't allowed to see him yet, but his brother's pulled strings. So you can come now if you'd like.”

John was faint with relief, but nodded as he followed the doctor to the recovery room.

“Thank you,” he whispered before he was left alone in front of Sherlock's bed.

He only nodded and smiled, and left the two men alone.

 

Sherlock looked awful, but better than he had in weeks, which was a stilling thought.

John collapsed with the relief into a bedside chair, which was plastic and obviously not made for sitting in, but rather, some strange form of torture.


	25. Chapter 25

A few hours later, he was moved from recovery to the CICU, where he was given a somewhat more private room, where John quickly fell asleep in the bedside chair.

 

He awoke when Lestrade arrived.

“Oh my god Greg, I was going to call you. I'm so sorry,” John blurted out.

Lestrade only waved it off. “I'm sure you had more pressing things on your mind. I figured no news was good news.”

“I'd better call Mrs Hudson,” he muttered to himself, peering at the clock with eyes blurry from sleep.

 

John left Lestrade watching over Sherlock while he stumbled into the hallway and dialled Mrs Hudson's number.

“It's John,” he greeted her. “Sherlock is fine.”

She sighed loudly. “Oh, I've been so worried. It's not healthy for a woman of my age to be so worried all the time.”

“I know,” John agreed. It certainly wasn't healthy for him either. “That should be over with now though. The transplant went well, and the doctors are optimistic for a full recovery.”

Mrs Hudson half cried half laughed with relief.

“He's still unconscious though, so I think you can wait until tomorrow before coming to visit.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

They spoke for another few minutes before they hung up, John feeling almost giddy. It was true. His days of such extreme worry should be over. They certainly weren't out of the woods, and perhaps never would be, but John could see the light of day, and after months of stumbling around in the dark, it was a huge relief.

 

Lestrade was telling Sherlock about a case he was working on when he returned.

John half suspected that he would tell Lestrade how to solve it the moment he awoke. Sedatives had always had a somewhat altered effect on Sherlock than they did most of the population.

 

Lestrade talked for a while longer, then left, but not before weaving his hand between the multiple tubes and wires snaking around Sherlock's body to give him a pat on the shoulder.

“Recover well mate,” he said. “You too,” he nodded to John.

He smiled. “Thank you. I will.”

 

He slept well that night, despite having to curl up in a chair made for Hobbits.


	26. Chapter 26

The sedation was lifted in the morning, and it was only the pain meds that kept Sherlock sleeping, and if John knew anything, he knew that it meant Sherlock wouldn't be sleeping for too much longer. Unluckily for Sherlock, Doctor Coleman hadn't liked how he'd reacted to the immunosuppressant drugs, and wanted to keep him intubated until at least the next morning. He'd been optimistic that Sherlock would sleep that long, but John was far more realistic, and knew Sherlock was close to waking up, no where near the twenty or so hours more that the medical staff had been hoping for him to sleep.

 

Indeed, John was correct. Only a few hours later, Sherlock made slight motions in his sleep, signalling he was close to waking up. It was another half hour before it finally happened.

Sherlock stirred, and one hand twitched. John could tell what it was trying to do, reach up to his throat, then to his mouth to pull out the tube. He waited for Sherlock's eyes to open and focus on him to speak.

“You're intubated you clot,” John said kindly. “It seems the new heart and old lungs aren't getting along so well. It should have been expected though, considering how great you get along with other people. And then we go and shove a bit of another person in you. I'm surprised there isn't a full blown civil war going on.” He smiled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John smiled. “Perhaps tomorrow they'll behave and we can let them out of time out. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock only closed his eyes in response.

John nodded. “That's a normal response. Are you in a lot of pain?”

Sherlock cracked one eye open in a _seriously John, I've just had major surgery where they broke my bones and shifted everything around and stuck an entirely new organ in me right after taking out the one I've had for my whole life, and you ask if it hurts?_ look.

John rolled his eyes. “Fine then.”

He pushed a button on one of the many machines surrounding Sherlock's bed, and Sherlock could feel the pain slipping away, along with his consciousness.


	27. Chapter 27

John repeated that a few more times throughout the afternoon, and managed to persuade the nurses to sedate Sherlock overnight, after one of them witnessed an awake period, in which he managed to convey the sense that he was entirely willing to rip out his breathing tube if they didn't. He was skilled like that.

 

The next morning, John waited for the sedation to wear off, and was rewarded with the sight of Sherlock's eyes. They looked more irritated than anything, somehow managing to convey more emotion than Anderson could in an entire book. (But perhaps John had been around Sherlock too much, and had begun to adopt some of his views on Anderson. He should watch out for that.)

John smiled at him. “I know, we kept sedating you, but it was for your own good. They had to shift your immunosuppressant meds around,” John explained. “The first cocktail they tried didn't work so well for you. But you're doing a lot better now. Ready to get that tube out?”

Sherlock only stared at him, a look that John knew far too well.

“Yes, obviously,” he sighed, answering his own question.

Sherlock rested his eyes for a minute while John fetched various people.

 

They made him cough when they pulled the tube out, which made his chest want to split open, and he was tempted to let it, if only that were to stop the pain.

 

The first words out of his mouth as soon as he was able to speak were “Can we go home now?”

John only laughed at him, which he thought was a bit rude.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It's going to be another brilliant scar,” Sherlock noted, five days later when he was allowed to sit up and move about more. He was staring at the incision in the mirror.

“That it will be,” John concurred. “What do you mean by _another,_ though?”

“There's still the scar from the LVAD, and of course all the ones I'd gotten from knife wounds, gun shots, and previous surgeries.”

“Oh of course,” John drawled, rolling his eyes. “How could I possibly have forgotten about those.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Please. You have your own. I just take a more orderly approach in cataloguing mine.”

John shook his head. “Of course you would,” he muttered.

Sherlock let the halves of his gown fall back together and stepped away from the mirror, wincing slightly. “Can we go home now?”

John smirked. “No,” he said simply, shaking his head.

Sherlock looked exasperated, but fell asleep shortly after.

John made an 'I told you so noise', and was almost disappointed Sherlock didn't get to hear it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock asked if they could leave for the next six days, when the answer was finally yes.

John swore he almost saw a genuine smile on Sherlock's face, which was quickly wiped away when Sherlock realized he'd have to be wheeled out like an invalid.

“Policy,” John sang, enjoying it far too much, while Sherlock only scowled in the wheelchair, bags piles on his lap as John steered him into the elevator.

Mycroft had sent a car (of course), but for some reason, Sherlock was less bothered by it then he'd be normally. He chalked that up to really missing Baker Street, their flat, and lovely Mrs Hudson. And her cooking.

 

Sherlock's spot on the couch seemed to call to him, and that's where John found him after hauling the bags up the stairs. The cushions molded to his form, his fingers clasped beneath his chin, and the faintest hints of a smile on his face.


	28. Chapter 28

Life certainly wasn't easy after that. It wasn't anything like before Sherlock's heart had been attacked, but it was certainly better than the period between hearts.

But Sherlock was on a cocktail of drugs, and his immune system was permanently in hibernation, meaning that he couldn't just ignore a sore throat or a cough, because odds were he'd end up in hospital without early intervention. John also made a strict 'no dive tackling criminals' rule, which Sherlock insisted he didn't do. John returned with video footage that proved otherwise, and Sherlock reluctantly agreed. And there were things they both hated, like when John got the flu and Sherlock had to go live with Mycroft for nearly a week. And it really wasn't easy. But it was far better than the alternative.

 

It was always in the back of their minds, what Sherlock had said that night at the pool.

And of course it wasn't true. Sherlock indeed had a heart. A heart that could break, and hurt, and even fail. So John was going to ensure that no one could ever tell Sherlock he didn't have a heart, even if he had to show them the scar that was just beginning to fade on Sherlock's chest. (John had also sworn that if he ever met the person who'd 'reliably informed' Sherlock of that, he would make sure they realized just how wrong they were.)

And John was determined that new heart would remain in Sherlock for a very, very long time. The anti-rejection meds had to be taken on a specific schedule, and John knew that Sherlock wouldn't have been able to do it if he were alone. But he knew that Sherlock liked being able to say that John was the only reason he still had a heart.

 


End file.
